


Have Your Fill

by alicekittridge



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Pining, Present Tense, Probably a bit violent, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-01-15 18:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18504871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: Other people would kill for such monotony.





	1. Self-Help

**Author's Note:**

> I'm shit at summaries. I apologize.  
> This WIP was in progress for a while, I've just never gotten around to posting it. Most of chapter 1 was written before season 2 even started, and obviously I didn't know things were gonna go in the direction they were gonna go show-wise, so I have some of that to keep in mind, but for now, here's a different take that I hope you'll enjoy. Elena is in this one; I've missed her, and figured out how she could make an appearance. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your readership and your ever-kind comments xx 
> 
> \--  
> Rated M for: Sexual content and violence, most of which will appear in chapter 2.

**NICE**

When Villanelle steps into the apartment the first thing she notices is the beach view from the balcony. The colorful décor is next, as well as the walls that’re painted the colors artists would describe as _sunshine yellow_ and _coral pink._ Colors too bright for her new handler, a tall man named Viktor-something whose suits are modern renditions of a style straight from a 1970’s men’s fashion magazine. Despite the clothes, he is a very serious man; he hadn’t responded to Villanelle’s attempts at banter—which are usually pretty good—on the car ride over. He’d then calmly chastised her, “This is a rather serious situation, Villanelle.”

            “I’d say the seriousness has gone down significantly since I’ve recovered from near death,” she’d said, and the silence that followed was enough for her to wish there was liquor somewhere in the glovebox.

            “You’ll be staying here for the time being,” Viktor says from the living room. “I’m afraid you’ll have to live with downsizing.”

            The apartment is on the smaller side, but it’s no shitty shoebox, not like the one she’d met Anton in while in Russia. She lugs her meager bag of clothes further into the place and searches for the bedroom. There, the bed is neatly made, its clothes a floral pattern, underneath which is a queen-sized mattress. Beside it is a window whose shutters open outwards and offer a corner of beach and a full frame of street, sidewalks, and Nice’s other colorful buildings. Buildings like Vienna’s, Villanelle thinks, tossing her bag onto the bed, but with a distinctive French twist.

            She finds the bathroom next, just a little ways from the bedroom; the tile on the floor is white while in the shower and above the pedestal sink it’s a dusty pink. The walls are cream. The tub is plain but the silver taps have old-fashioned character. Doable.

            Back in the living room, Villanelle asks, “What am I doing here?”

            “It’s no longer possible for you to live in Paris,” Viktor replies.

            “And my apartment?”

            “Already let to a married couple. But there is good news.”

            She crosses her arms, waits for more.

            “They’ve decided to put you back in commission.”

            Villanelle straightens. “How soon?” she questions.

            “Not for another couple says,” Viktor replies. “You may be physically well but there is a question of stability.”

            “I am stable.” Viktor says nothing. Villanelle asks, “Will this mean another shrink visit?”

            “Yes.” Straight to the point. Maybe that’s something to appreciate. “You’ll get your bearings first, and we’ll talk about it later.” He excuses himself to the restroom, shutting the door quietly behind him. Villanelle takes the opportunity to make the short journey to the kitchen and rummage through the fridge. It’s stocked with groceries: milk, cheese, bread, greens, various fruits and packages of meat, a cardboard box of Cokes, and a drawer containing alcohol. She procures a champagne bottle and barely gets the foil off before Viktor, materializing suddenly, snatches it from her hand and says, firmly, “No alcohol.”

            Villanelle scoffs. “A Coke, then?” Why have a bottle of fucking Veuve Clicquot if she’s not allowed to drink it? She takes a Coke, pops it open. “Worried I’ll self-medicate?”

            “Just a precaution.” Viktor puts the Veuve Clicquot back in its drawer. Villanelle wouldn’t be surprised if she came back tomorrow and found the drawer locked with a childproof lock.

            “I have nothing to self-medicate about, Viktor.”

            Only an eyebrow twitches in response. He closes the fridge and makes his way to the door. “Spend a couple days on yourself,” he says. “Then we can talk about work.”

 

—

**LONDON**

If Dante were to write another epic of circles of hell and have Eve as his central character, every realm would be routine. Routine, routine, routine. With something new added in: cooking. Her evenings are filled with dishes she’s never attempted to make before and the endless chopping of vegetables, and then, on nights when Niko is away—which have become more frequent—she splurges on takeout. Greek from the restaurant everyone raves about half an hour away from the house, or curry from an Indian restaurant that has never seen Eve’s face. And there’s the alcohol. Their cabinet has never been so full. Red wines and white wines and rosés. Champagne. And vodka, for the heavy nights. If he has anything to say about it, Niko says so silently, but Eve has seen him pour himself a measure or two of the vodka. Or the wineglasses will come out at dinner and be drained halfway through.

            The routine they once had was upset and another has taken its place. They still come home to each other. Nobody’s threatened to walk out—at least, not yet.

            Other people would kill for such monotony.

            Or, Eve thinks, peeling the sixth potato the recipe calls for, someone like Niko. She remembers the early days of their relationship, after the late-90s flirting had given way to something more serious, where his chivalric streaks would come out—at bridge, at dinner in some popular restaurant—and she’d get glances from women. Quick but weighty glances, filled with both envy and longing. “Lucky woman,” they said, and, “My husband never does that.” They weren’t with someone doting or caring, and back then Eve had thought it special, but now Niko’s rare dotage means having to tuck herself further away. She can’t talk about work, and if she does, it’s met with disinterest, or worry, or a hail of questions until, exasperated, Eve says, “I can’t do this.”

            Tonight, Niko is gone, to a friend’s house or somewhere by himself, Eve doesn’t know, and so she has the entire house to herself. Which means free reign of the kitchen. And the radio blaring Backstreet Boys. She sings along, mumbles the recipe’s instructions, thinking back to the women who’d give her looks, wanting to tell them, “You’ll get so bored of it.”

            But there’s comfort in the boredom. Comfort in knowing you’ll have a place to fall back to, a person to fall into, and Eve likes it, but somehow it doesn’t feel like enough to satisfy her. Fulfill her. Even now, having finished peeling the potatoes, she feels like she’s missing something, that there’s more than routine and domestic comfort in life, and once again she finds herself envying Villanelle her lifestyle. The freedom she has to travel where she wishes (when not on work), spend her money on whatever frivolous thing she likes.

            She won’t be working anytime soon, Eve knows. Things are going to be hellishly quiet.

            Eve slices the potatoes and seasons them with salt, pepper, garlic, and rosemary. She places them evenly onto a baking pan and puts them into the oven alongside the chicken. Then she starts on the cream vodka sauce, stealing sips from the bottle, already adding another to the mental grocery list.

            While waiting on the food in the oven to finish baking, Eve calls Elena via Skype.

            After leaving MI6, Elena had lingered around London, looking for new work somewhere within the field of intelligence. “I could literally be their goddamn secretary,” she’d told Eve over the phone, “as long as it doesn’t get me murdered.” (This was a few weeks after Paris, when things were in a state of chaotic-calm.) Having found nothing, she called Eve and said she was fucking off to Curacao for God knew how long.

            _“Hello from the poolside,”_ Elena says when she answers. She looks happy, and she’s positively glowing.

            “Ugh,” Eve groans, “I’m insanely jealous of you.”

            _“You can still join me. We’ll both go into debt here but at least we’ll die somewhere nice.”_

“Drink a cocktail for me.”

            _“I think the bartender will get the wrong impression if I tell him I’m drinking for two.”_

“There are other ways to excuse multiple drinks,” Eve says, smiling.

            _“Should I even ask how work is going?”_ Elena says.

            “It’s… complicated,” Eve admits, and explains the details that are interesting but keeping the gory ones out of it. If she tells Elena about stabbing Villanelle, she’ll get an earful, more than she did with Kenny, who went silent in shock after his initial outburst. Hell, Elena would fly all the way to London just to reprimand her. “What in the _hell_ were you thinking?!”

            _“Now I really think you should fly over here.”_

Eve shakes her head. “Can’t do that.”

            _“I’m serious. You need a vacation.”_

“The universe working as it does, something will break open as soon as my plane’s in the air. I have to stay here.”

            Elena is silent for a moment. She sets her phone down, orders a mai thai. Then she says, _“At least try_ something _stress relieving. Something that isn’t alcohol.”_

The oven timer beeps. Eve gets up to turn it off. “What do you suggest?”

 

—

The next afternoon, free of Viktor’s gaze and presence, Villanelle spends about an hour at a public pool just a 10-minute drive from her new apartment. With the weather warming up, most of the occupants swam outside, which left the indoor pool almost completely free. In the lane next to her is an older woman wearing an old-fashioned-inspired, striped one piece, dark-tinted goggles on her head, swimming laps with ease. Villanelle thinks she must’ve been an Olympic hopeful at one point, and hopes her own body will cooperate with her once she reaches that woman’s age; she’s amazingly fit. Meanwhile Villanelle feels disastrously out of shape; even kicking with a kickboard leaves her winded. She finishes another lap, breathing hard. She gulps down more water.

            “Easy on that,” says the woman in French. Her goggles are resting on her forehead now, revealing bright eyes with red circles underneath them. “Don’t want to vomit.”

            “ _Merci,_ ” Villanelle says. “I envy you.”

            The woman laughs. “Me? Why?”

            “You’re older than me and yet you’re more fit.”

            “You’re just out of practice.”

            The last time Villanelle had been in a pool was… a long time ago. Back then she’d hated the chlorine and the rigorous laps but then had learned to enjoy them. She says, “I think you’re right,” and hoists herself from the water.

            She uses the locker room’s showers. Hers is right under a skylight. She tilts her head back, letting the shampoo soak, letting the hot water warm her cold body. Her limbs are jelly and her muscles will be pleasantly sore in the morning. Out of habit, her fingers find the scar and stroke it, feeling the new, raised skin, and how, if she presses, the tissue underneath is still tender. She thinks of Eve, how close their faces had been. How she would’ve kissed her.

            She leans her forehead against the wall, shuts her eyes. Touches herself. There are worse places to do this. (Like the tube, or a public bus.) The shower is entirely private, and the noise of the water coming from the showerhead and hitting the tile will hide any sound she makes.

            Villanelle still sees Eve behind her closed eyes, and sparks fly behind that imagined version of Eve with each stroke. She comes thinking about Eve’s mouth.

            She finishes her shower once the orgasm wears off, rinsing her suit, scrubbing herself with a lavender soap bar she’d found in her apartment’s bathroom drawer. When she emerges from her steamy cubby and into main locker room, dressed and hair tied up, she locks eyes with the woman who’d been swimming next to her while she’s in the middle of pulling underwear on.

 

—

Eve collapses on the couch, mentally thanking and cursing Elena for suggesting she try swimming. She’d promised it was a good exercise and that being in the water was something healing. Eve admits she’d been right, but doesn’t know if she likes the smell of chlorine.

            Niko won’t either, she thinks, and her mind immediately ventures to the vial of _La Villanelle_ underneath the bed.


	2. A Lot of Living to Do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a month. I apologize. The last few weeks of college were crazy but I can say that I am now an unemployed college graduate who is looking forward to being done with school for about 10 years. 
> 
> I hope you like this chapter; it was longer than I intended it to be. The epilogue should be posted sometime tomorrow. 
> 
> Content warning: Sex and violence.

**NICE**

Villanelle goes straight to lunch after leaving the pool. She takes a car into Old Town and finds herself walking in the middle of the Cours Selaya. There are vendors of every kind, from food to furniture, and cafés and restaurants with people sitting at their outdoor tables. She finds a suitable place at a table in the sun, orders a light lunch with a bottle of mineral water, and observes. There are people bickering with vendors. Couples leaning close, conversing privately, some joking, others angry. People taking pictures. Villanelle focuses on expressions, on lilts in voices, on laughter. She knows what Eve’s laugh sounds like. Knows what a smile looks like on her. Knows her anger and her anguish and her distress and her fear. Wants to know what her joy sounds like. Her ecstasy. What she sounds like when she comes. Villanelle breathes deeply, feeling ice expanding in her chest, a different kind than the one that comes with shrinks asking if she still thinks or dreams about the people from her past. She crumples a paper napkin into her fist as tight as her grip will allow.

            She really needs to go somewhere by the ocean.

            Villanelle explores after lunch, avoiding cameras, not wanting to be caught in a picture. (Konstantin had taught her to avoid them because it was more than likely that they would end up on the Internet and could be found and used against her. The only photographs that were allowed were ones taken by her, or ones used for her cover identities and their various documents.) She goes in and out of shops and eventually finds herself in a tiny perfume shop, browsing the scents, spraying them onto sample cards. Viktor never said she couldn’t spend money. Nor did he specify how much. Villanelle may be extravagant in her purchases but she is also frugal. Lives within her means, doesn’t go over the limit imposed on any of her cards. She ends up purchasing a citrus perfume, enamored with its floral undertones and the thought of what it would smell like on Eve.

 

—

**LONDON**

Another week goes by with no new developments, save for reluctant input from Kenny—who has been avoiding Eve like she’s got the worst fucking strain of stomach flu, with good reason, she thinks; she’d been out of hand that day—about tiny leads or statements, and so, on a Thursday, when Eve comes home empty-handed to an empty house, she calls Elena.

            “Hey,” she says, before Elena can even get a greeting in, “how much did you pay for your tickets?”

            _“Given that I fucked off here in the height of holiday travel, almost five hundred pounds.”_

            “Jesus.”

            _“I’m a frugal girl, Eve; I could afford it. Right now is good because it’s the off-season and the hotels are practically naked.”_

With her current situations at home and work, lounging on the beach or at the poolside sounds like a better use of her time. She can take work with her, if need be, go through things in a different environment. See if the waves enlighten her about the case in a way London hasn’t yet offered.

            Eve says, “Let me see what my options are.”

 

—

Friday afternoon, when Niko is at work and Eve has just requested five days off, she goes to her phone provider to tell them she’ll be out of the country and to make sure her mobile will work in Curacao. Then she stops by the bank, tells them much the same thing, and gets her cards in order. The last thing she does is purchase a trendy one-piece swimsuit. Heaven forbid anyone see her in late-90s anything.

            She spends the rest of the afternoon packing—clothes, toiletries, work-related things—and leaves Niko a semi-detailed note on the fridge.

            She’s in the air by 8:00 that evening.

 

            Villanelle wakes to fingers brushing her arm and realizes that it’s Célia—whom she’d met at the beach earlier in the day—moving in her sleep. The apartment’s window bleeds evening right onto her figure. Villanelle studies it, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the plain white underwear that she’d removed with her teeth—much to Célia’s delight—pointedly ignoring the heavier breathing of the boyfriend, sound asleep behind her. (Villanelle had fucked him quickly, with Célia watching from the bedroom doorway.)

            Sandwiched between them, Villanelle is too warm. And there’s a love bite on her neck and another on her breast. She debates whether to send the couple away or to keep them here a little longer, let them sleep, since they’d had sex for a handful of hours in the afternoon.

            Villanelle throws an arm over Célia’s bare stomach and thinks that this intimate warmth is what Eve goes to sleep with and wakes up with, but knows that the passion that Eve and her husband once had between them is now gone. That Eve lies there no longer stirred by him. Their fucking—if they even do still fuck—would be passionless. Eve probably doesn’t even masturbate to him either. Somehow the thought is pleasing.

            Célia eventually stirs into wakefulness and gives Villanelle a kiss on the forehead. “Good morning,” she whispers.

            “It’s evening,” Villanelle murmurs.

            “Is it?”

            She moves the sheets down, exposing her breasts. “You bit me.”

            Célia blushes. “Did you not like it?”

            “I loved it.” Maybe she doesn’t want to send them away yet. Villanelle moves her hand to Célia’s cheek, brushes it with the pad of her thumb. “Do you like watching other people have sex?” she asks.

            Célia nods.

            “Who do you watch more?”

            “The women,” Célia replies after a moment.

            Villanelle hums, checks the clock over Célia’s shoulder. It’s 7:30 PM. She asks, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”

            Célia smiles. The lines at the corners of her eyes stand out. “As long as you’ve got something to drink.”

            “What kind of woman do you think I am?”

            Villanelle dresses to go to the shop, leaving Célia and her boyfriend in bed, but she tells Célia, before shutting the door, “If you fuck, I’d rather you do it on the couch.”

            She buys fish and beef and pork and chicken, various spices that go well with each, red and white cooking wines, a loaf of fresh baked bread, a stick of real butter, and ingredients for dessert, including a tiny blowtorch that’s used to caramelize sugar on crème brûlée. And, just to spite Viktor, the store’s most expensive champagne even though the bottle of Veuve Clicquot in her fridge is twice as much.

            When she returns to the apartment she finds it empty save for Célia, who is dressed in a shell pink camisole and dark jeans.

            “You really went for it,” she says, admiring the two bulging paper bags in Villanelle’s arms.

            “What happened to your boyfriend?” Villanelle asks.

            “Markus had a meeting.”

            “I guess it’s just you and me. Can you eat fish?”

 

—

**CURACAO**

Eve steps into Curacao International Airport at 9:32 AM London time, 2:32 PM local time. It’s lively with other travelers: men in full business suits, families laden with strollers and bulging bags, women in business formal with steely eyes, college students in sweats and feeling just as zombified as Eve. The smell of different kinds of coffee and lunch foods reminds her that she’s in desperate need of breakfast, but the airport isn’t the place to get it.

            She follows the crowd to baggage claim, fetches her single dark suitcase, and makes her way to the exit. Elena’s waiting for her past security and greets her with a wide smile and a tight hug.

            “Somehow I had a feeling you’d call me and back out,” she says, and they start to walk to the doors that’ll take them outside. “Are you glad you didn’t?”

            “Yeah,” Eve says, admiring the sunny view out the windows. Things already feel a little lighter. She’d left her responsibilities on the plane. They’ll be sprinting to catch up. “I hope you have a good restaurant in mind.”

            “Don’t lose your confidence just yet. Of course I do.”

            The drive to the hotel takes about forty minutes. Eve tosses her suitcase on the bed and quickly changes into fresh clothes. She tries to tame her hair in the bathroom but the task is useless; she puts it up into a bun and calls it good.

 

—

Viktor knocks on her door at 10 AM. Villanelle answers it barefoot, noticing the entryway smells like shampoo, left over from Célia’s getaway just an hour earlier. Her handler comes in without a word, looking about the place like a fucking police inspector, hands clasped behind his back. Maybe he _was_ a police inspector, or military-something. Villanelle doesn’t give a shit about it. His presence here means two things: there’s an examination, and there’s a new job. As to which comes first, there’s no doubt.

            “Nothing has changed since the last time you were here,” Villanelle says, crossing her arms.

            Viktor opens the fridge. Raises his eyebrows at the champagne bottle sitting in the side shelf.

            “It was for the guest.” She slips into a pair of ankle boots, does up the laces.

            “Guest?” says Viktor.

            “A woman I had sex with. She stayed for dinner. Are we leaving?”

            Viktor’s car is a black Volvo S60. He opens the passenger door for her and it’s all the courtesy he shows.

            The drive takes them back into Old Town and he parks outside a faded yellow building. Villanelle follows him into it and realizes that it’s another apartment complex.

            “Let me guess,” Villanelle says, “the shrink prefers to do work from home.”

            “It’s a good location,” Viktor says, pressing the elevator’s call button. “Convenient.”

            Villanelle wonders what the new shrink’s going to be like.

            Upstairs, the hallways are narrower and the floors are white marble tile. The décor is a mix of modern and old-fashioned. Villanelle thinks of her old apartment and feels only a tiny pang in her chest. That life is over.

            They stop outside a large door with an engraved sign posted on it. _Monika Fälldin, PhD._

“You gonna come in?” Villanelle asks.

            “Conversations with therapists are private, I’m afraid,” Viktor replies. “I’ll be waiting for you downstairs.” He knocks twice on the door and opens it, revealing a spacious room that’s painted spinach green and populated with dark furniture. A woman walks into view, dressed in black slacks and a navy turtleneck sweater, her dirty blonde hair tied into a bun.

            “Hi Viktor,” she says, shaking his hand. “Hello, Villanelle. Please, come in.”

            Villanelle steps around Viktor’s tall frame and into Dr. Fälldin’s vegetable office.

 

            Eve collapses into a lounge chair next to Elena, gin and tonic in hand, looking out at the hotel’s outdoor pool. There are no swimmers. The water is immaculately clean, and the surface ripples in the soft breeze. Eve says, “I can see why you’ve stayed here.”

            “I’ll have to go back eventually,” Elena says. “I’m a city girl at heart.” She pushes her sunglasses up to the top of her head. “How’s work?”

            “Sure you want to hear that story?”

            “The fact that you’re asking me if I want to hear about it means it’s more exciting than I imagined.”

            Eve repeats much of what she’d told Elena earlier in the week, but adds around her gin and tonic glass, “Villanelle is out of the picture.”

            “That’s not like either of you,” Elena says.

            “What?”

            “She’s a prolific assassin with high-profile kills, and she’s out of a job?” Elena reaches for her bottle of coconut water, takes a swig. “And weren’t you the one obsessing over her?”

            “Please,” Eve scoffs, “it wasn’t obsessing. She was a job. And there’s someone else.”

            “Someone else?”

            “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

            “I could put our phones in the pool, if you’d like,” Elena says. “Don’t tell me anything classified. Just the basics.”

            Eve starts from the beginning. She lies about Paris, says that the apartment she found was Villanelle’s but that by the time she’d gotten there it looked unlived in. That the moment she’d gotten back to London she was out of a job but still looking for Villanelle on the side, has been for months, and that only weeks ago did more kills start popping up. Eve had hoped it was Villanelle, had even believed it was her, at least until she took a closer look and realized the methods were too kind.

            “Kind?” Elena says, slightly incredulous. “That’s a little ironic.”

            “Polite assassins exist too,” Eve mumbles, remembering when Villanelle had broken into her house and said her pleases and thank yous and even asked to lay the fucking table. She continues, “The deaths of these people are very subtle, and the autopsies report that they look natural.”

            “Opposite of Villanelle, then.”

            “There’s no flair, no showing off. It’s too careful. Insanely underwhelming.”

            Elena is silent for a long count of seconds. “Did you say ‘underwhelming?’”

            “Yes,” Eve says.

            “Now you’re really in deep.”

            “You don’t need to worry about me, Elena. She’ll… pop up again, and we’ll have her.”

            “And once this massive chase is done?” Elena asks. “What then?”

            Eve downs a too-big sip of gin and tonic. She doesn’t want to think about when the chase will end, or if it’ll ever end. Maybe it won’t and she’ll be chasing Villanelle forever. She gets up from the lounge chair, taking her glass with her. “I think I’m gonna read for a while,” she says. “I’ll catch you for dinner.”

            She gets another gin and tonic from the bar and takes it with her to her room.

 

            Villanelle settles into the coffee brown couch, spreads her legs comfortably, waiting for Dr. Fälldin to return with water. The space is large but comfortable, clearly the place where she holds meetings. The back of the apartment is probably where Dr. Fälldin actually lives. It would also be a large space, completely paid for by their employers. Villanelle wonders what kinds of people the good doctor sees, if they’re all killers-for-hire or if there’s some regular people in there too.

            Dr. Fälldin returns with a blue water bottle for herself and a green bottle of Perrier for Villanelle, setting it in front of her. Villanelle doesn’t say thank you. Instead she says, while Dr. Fällin sits on the other couch, “You don’t look like a shrink.”

            “What are shrinks supposed to look like?”

            Villanelle twists open her Perrier. “Not like literature professors.”

            Dr. Fälldin’s eyes crinkle in what looks like amusement. She scoots a yellow legal pad closer to her, sets a ballpoint pen on top of it. “Do you mind if I make notes?”

            Villanelle shrugs. “Why would I care what you write about me?”

            Dr. Fälldin picks up the pen, twirls it in her fingers. “How have you been feeling?” she asks.

            “Fine.”

            “Your injury isn’t troubling you?”

            “It itches like hell.” There are moments when she wants to claw her skin off, scratch the muscle and tender insides to see if that’ll stop the itch for good. She stays the urge to move her hand to the wound.

            “But it doesn’t affect walking, or running, or daily tasks?”

            Villanelle shakes her head.

            “What about thoughts?”

            “It depends on what you mean by ‘thoughts,’ doctor,” Villanelle replies, taking a sip of Perrier.

            “Violent thoughts, self-deprecating thoughts…”

            “I think about how bored I am. Being out of a job isn’t fun.”

            “Who said you were out of a job?” Dr. Fälldin asks.

            “Eve Polastri put me out of commission.” Villanelle does, however, perk up at the doctor’s words. Things are brightening up. Something might happen soon. She tells herself to be patient.

 

            Eve throws open the balcony doors, letting in the warm breeze and sea salt air. Immediately the hotel room is brighter. She debates sitting in one of the chairs with her book but decides she’d rather read on the bed. She sets her gin and tonic on the nightstand and cracks open Paula Hawkins’ _The Girl on the Train._ She’d packed it for for-fun reading, feeling that her other books—like Richard Webster’s _Why Freud Was Wrong_ and some of her other bricks1—would be too dull reading. That she would see the words _psychopathy_ or _psychoanalysis_ and immediately think of Villanelle. She settles further into the pillows and is absorbed, until her mind reminds her that she could’ve been in a similar situation, had Bill not stopped Villanelle from boarding the train after her in Berlin. Murder is a part of her life, too.

            “Goddammit,” Eve says, running a hand over her face and tossing the book to the other side of the bed.

            Fucking Villanelle, Eve thinks. This is my life now. She fingers the lemon in her drink, stroking the peel, the webs of fiber, realizing that, as crazy as everything has been from the moment she was assigned the task, she doesn’t regret taking it. She wants to keep taking it. And if finding another assassin is the way to do it, then so be it, but Eve wishes there would be a sign, a development. She wants to know where Villanelle ran off to after Paris. If she’s still there or in another country entirely. Eve knows she isn’t dead. The blood trail from the apartment and the old lady’s words were proof enough, but there’s something else. A gut feeling.

            “Are you waiting for something?” she whispers. “What’re you doing?”

 

            Villanelle shuts Dr. Fälldin’s door a little too loudly behind her, leaning against it to collect herself. After all the fuss of coming here and having a conversation, Dr. Fälldin had said, “Give me a day to go over everything, and then I might sign you off.”

            Her employers are dicks.

            She takes the elevator down to the main floor and disposes of her empty bottle of Perrier in a recycle bin as she walks out the door. She spots Viktor’s Volvo parked on the curb.

            “How was it?” Viktor asks when she slides into the passenger seat.

            “You’re really not signing me off?”

            “Your recovery is important.”

            “I’m stable.”

            Viktor starts the car. “It’s only a day. Surely you can be patient.”

            Both boredom and patience have their limits.

            Back at her apartment, Villanelle whiles away the afternoon hours with lunch and drinking champagne straight from the bottle until she’s sure she’s had an amount that’s equivalent to a small glass. She paces from the parlor to her bedroom, collapses on the sofa, tries to sleep but finds her mind is rushing too much. When she can’t stand the silence, she throws on a different outfit and jacket and heads out.

            Even though it’s dinner hour, the club she’s posted herself at is relatively well-populated. Had she come at a later hour, it would’ve been too crowded. It has a different flavor than Paris clubs, she thinks, spinning around in her barstool to scan the crowd. The people are different too. More relaxed. Not pinned down by big-city lifestyles and work. Even the way they dress is different. She takes it all in while her tongue absorbs the sour tang of lemon.

            Gin and tonic tastes like Eve.

            She’s thankful the drink is barely touched when she spots a woman across the way that holds her interest. Her hair is curly and styled in a distinctly French way. She’s wearing black trousers and a pinstriped suit jacket paired with practical but good-looking pumps. Warmth stirs in Villanelle’s gut—appreciation and want.

            Seducing her isn’t too much of a challenge. Villanelle, after they’ve introduced themselves, offers to buy her another drink. The woman gives her an appreciative and lustful once-over and says, in smooth French, “No, thank you. I’d like to be sober for this one.”

            They kiss heatedly in the back of the cab. The driver is smart enough to keep his eyes on the road. Villanelle takes Nadine’s hand and puts it between her legs and pictures Eve.

            Pictures Eve still when she takes Nadine from behind in the bathroom, wonders if Eve will ask her to move a slick finger further south than her tailbone. Comes hard thinking about it when she gets herself off with her free hand, muffling the moan against the curve of Nadine’s shoulder.

            “ _Merde,”_ Nadine breathes afterwards, “you’ve got sharp teeth.”

            Villanelle scrubs her hands at the sink. “Did you hate it?”

            Nadine shakes her head no.

            Gently, Villanelle reaches over and cups her face. She asks, “Do you want to put your mouth on me?”

            “God, yes…”

           

—

Some arsehole is knocking on her door. Villanelle groans, throws her half-awake legs over the side of the bed and pulls on yesterday’s clothes. She opens the door and Viktor is there, dressed in a suit and tie, holding a postcard. Villanelle raises her brows. “You couldn’t’ve called?”

            “I prefer in-person visits,” Viktor says, and holds the thing out to her. “For tomorrow. They want it to be quick and give you a day to plan.”

            Villanelle hums. Excitement stirs in her ribcage. Business as usual. “Anything else?” she says, already shutting the door. Viktor shakes his head and she completes the action.

            Villanelle puts the postcard on her nightstand and crawls back into bed next to a half-awake Nadine. Tentatively, she scoots closer and Nadine throws an arm over her with a heavy, pleased sigh.

            “I didn’t think you were the soft type,” Nadine murmurs.

            Villanelle presses a kiss to the warm skin of her throat. She isn’t that type. But something has been longing for it, pulsing from somewhere unspoken. She trails her lips lower until she’s level with Nadine’s breasts. Nadine gives her consent in the form of a hand in Villanelle’s hair.

            “I have work in a little while,” Villanelle says against her skin.

            “What sort of work?” Nadine rolls onto her back, allowing better access.

            Villanelle teases a nipple with her tongue. “Research.” She slips two fingers inside and her stomach clenches pleasantly. She hopes Eve wants her this terribly. That she’s so far gone already that it’ll only take Villanelle a few perfect strokes to have Eve trembling under her.

 

            She begins research with lunch. Villanelle helps herself to a simple but filling cheese baguette, a bottle of Perrier, and macaroons. She settles on her bed with the macaroons, munching them as she opens the secure network and types in the number on the back of the touristy postcard. (The picture is of the Cours Selaya, the colors oversaturated, the decade dating back to the 70s.) Once in, she straightens up and squints at the name and picture at the top of the page.

            _Natalia Scarborough._

Her hair is mousy brown and curly, and her eyes are the color of winter ice. There’s something familiar about her. Then Villanelle recalls the public pool and the lithe form swimming in the lane next to her, how she’d locked eyes with her in the locker room.

            A chance encounter.

            She reads further.

            _43, former CEO of Swedish engineering firm Borg Engineering._

_Reason of resignation: Business scandal involving nuclear technology_

_Nationality: English/Swedish; has citizenship in both countries_

_Personal life: Never married, has a string of lovers—mostly women, whose ages vary from mid-twenties to mid-forties—swims, owns a holiday home in Nice, France that was purchased for 1.3 million Euros._

There are photos of the holiday house. Villanelle whistles when she clicks through them, says, “Wow” when she sees the master bathroom and its large jacuzzi tub. Other photos are surveillance photos of Natalia with her lovers: young women that look like they could be models or actresses or university students going back for a second degree; older women in business positions; men in their thirties hoping for a wife, or maybe they just like an older woman who knows her shit dominating them in bed.

            Further down the page is an attached file with the title <Resignation Report.> Villanelle clicks it and reads through it. The report goes into detail about the kind of nuclear technology Natalia Scarborough was working on on the side. She had her main job as CEO of Borg Engineering but then delved into development plans of some sort of reactor or other, which went completely against Borg Engineering’s promise to use what they called “green technology.” Someone at the firm had caught wind of Natalia’s involvements, confronted her, offered her an ultimatum that ended in her resignation. She has, however, not terminated her involvement with her nuclear technology plans. The file includes sneaky photographs of Natalia shaking hands with businessmen in suits, attending meetings with them and two women dressed in professional attire, and once again shaking hands with them.

            Villanelle has a plan forming by the time she’s closed out of the file.

 

—

The next afternoon, Villanelle accompanies Viktor to lunch at an upscale seafood restaurant. They’d driven there in his Volvo and Villanelle had resisted the urge to ditch the car and take a taxi to the restaurant instead, since Viktor apparently had a love of classical music. She uses her best manners as she butters her bread and cuts into her fish, patiently waiting for Viktor to deliver news.

            “I used to come here with my wife,” Viktor says, wiping the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin.

            “You had a wife?”

            “Yes. She died of cancer three years ago.”

            Villanelle raises her brows, spears another bite of fish onto her fork. She says, “You had news for me.”

            “Dr. Fälldin has completed her assessment of you.”

            “And?”

            “She’s signed you off.”

            Warmth spreads throughout Villanelle’s body. She only nods.

            Viktor asks, “How is the research coming?”

            “I can see why you want me to kill her,” Villanelle says. “Nuclear technology? Serious stuff.”

            “It’s angered a lot of people.”

            “I can’t imagine why.”

            “Climate change is a serious issue, Villanelle.”

            “And here I was thinking you were old-fashioned.”

            “Political issues never go out of style,” Viktor says, and then summons the waiter to ask for a dessert menu.

 

            Villanelle waits two hours before she hits the pool. She doesn’t know what Natalia Scarborough’s routine is and so it comes as a surprise when, in the middle of her workout, the woman in question slides smoothly into the next lane.

            “Well,” Natalia says when Villanelle kicks to her side of the pool, “back again?”

            “Had to get away from my boss.”

            Natalia puts a black swim cap over her tied back hair and places her goggles on her forehead. “Understandable.”

            “You look familiar,” Villanelle ventures.

            “I used to be CEO of an engineering firm in Sweden,” Natalia says.

            “Oh, that’s right… I read about your resignation.”

            A brief look of panic crosses Natalia’s face. “What exactly?”

            Villanelle shakes her head. “Nothing serious. Personal matters.”

            “It wasn’t that serious to begin with.” She makes to pull her goggles over her eyes but stops. “Since we’re talking about work…” She holds out her hand. “Natalia, but you’ve guessed that already.”

            “Yuliana,” Villanelle says, shaking Natalia’s hand. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

            “Will you be hungry in an hour?”

            “I’m always hungry.”

            Natalia smiles. “Come to dinner with me. A little casual talk wouldn’t hurt.”

 

            Dinner is at a restaurant where the staff know Natalia by name. Villanelle shares a bottle of expensive chardonnay and an appetizer of buttered bread with her. A handsome waiter comes by, leans towards Natalia, and asks softly, “The usual, ma’am?”

            “Please.”

            Villanelle orders ratatouille. Of all her time in France she’s never had the urge to try it, but since the dish’s origins are here in Nice, she figures she might as well. She pours herself another measure of chardonnay, enough to keep her glass on the low side, and eyes the waiter’s retreating back. He’s fit, probably spends a lot of free time at the gym, or playing polo, or some other sport that requires him to be built that way. He’d probably smell like some pricey, sporty cologne, even after his clothes were gone.

            “You like him?” Natalia says.

            “He’s sculpted.” Villanelle turns back to Natalia. “You’re much more appealing.” It isn’t a lie. Men are handsome, and good for something quick, but her preferences are for women. Even if she doesn’t really connect to people, Villanelle finds she connects more to them, that she enjoys their company more, at both dinner and in bed, even if neither last very long. And Natalia, as shady of a woman as she is, is beautiful. But Villanelle can’t help but think of Eve, who outshines them all.

            She sips more chardonnay to hide the sudden tightening in her chest. She wishes it was Eve she was having dinner with, Eve with whom the proposition of sex was unspoken but imminent. She’d give Eve anything she wanted.

            Natalia’s usual dish, Villanelle discovers, is duck confit. It’s a rich but tender dish, served with vegetables on the side. The smell is mouth-watering. Ratatouille, on the other hand, is a mixed vegetable dish, with a variety of Mediterranean vegetables layered and served in a casserole pan. Villanelle takes a small bite and finds the taste pleasant.

            “How’s the ratatouille?” Natalia asks.

            “Divine.”

            “What do you do for work, Yuliana?”

            Villanelle makes up a cover story, explaining that she’s interning at a friend’s start-up but that it’s not very good. She’s tried to find other work but feels stuck and passionless.

            “I could hook you up with someone, if you’re interested,” Natalia suggests around a bite of duck. “You’d be surprised the people I know.”

            “I wouldn’t make a good engineer.”

            “It doesn’t have to be engineering. It could be art, or fashion, or real estate… Whatever you’re interested in.”

            Villanelle inclines her head. Yuliana is, apparently, someone who blushes easily at kindnesses. “Thank you,” she says. “I’ll have to think on it.”

            By dessert, Natalia has had two glasses of chardonnay and is a little bubblier. Villanelle dares to ask, “Why did you resign?”

            Natalia waves a dismissive hand. “It’s a long story.”

            “We’ve got a few hours.” She takes a slow, suggestive bite of her clafoutis, not missing the way Natalia’s eyes zero in on the action, or the way she crosses her legs under the table. She’s probably been wet for the past hour.

            “The official statement, as you may have read, was I resigned for personal reasons. It’s partly true.” Natalia scrapes the last bit of her soufflé onto her spoon and pops it into her mouth. She continues around the bite, “The whole truth is someone got wind of my side project and didn’t like it very much. Said it conflicted with company interests, which was bullshit.”

            “What interests?”

            “Technological. This person brought it up with the board and I was offered an ultimatum: ditch the side project and focus on the company, or resign. I chose the latter.”

            “Why?”

            “I would have more freedom to work on that project without people being on my arse about it.”

            “Sounds pretty serious.”

            Natalia shrugs. “Haven’t had any complaints.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin. “Do you have plans?”

            “No.”

            “I think you should come back with me and have a nightcap.”

            Villanelle smiles but quickly recovers. “As long as you have champagne.”

 

            The holiday home is much prettier in person than it is in pictures. Konstantin had taught her that photographs don’t often do buildings and spaces justice, and Villanelle had especially learned from her old Paris apartment.

            She takes in the marble floors and the modern décor and the various paintings on the walls. She thinks one of them is a Goya, another a dull Rembrandt, and the unmistakable drip-painting of Jackson Pollock. Were they purchased with real money or were they stolen?

            “Where did you get these?” Villanelle asks.

            “I inherited them,” replies Natalia, heading for the kitchen.

            There’s a room off the parlor that holds a singular grand piano. The gold letters on the side read Steinway & Sons. The piano is black and the curved legs are gold-plated and look like feet on a clawfoot tub. On the stand is a book of music, the title and notes a blur from this distance.

            “Do you play?”

            “My father did,” Natalia replies. “I mostly keep it for guests who do.”

            Hmm. A former-CEO who gets involved in nuclear technology but inherits expensive artworks and a grand piano.

            The kitchen is massive. Everything is state-of-the-art. The cabinets are dark and made of real wood—if Villanelle had to guess, it would be alder—and the countertops are marble, matching the floors. The backsplashes are subway tile with ocean blue glass accents. And the walk-in pantry is the size of a master closet.

            Natalia is sifting through the wine fridge. She procures a bottle of Dom Perignon. “This good enough?”

            “I suppose.” Yuliana knows her wines. Champagnes are a different story. Natalia pours them both glasses and hands one over. Villanelle likes the taste but pretends to ponder it.

            “Not your thing?”

            “It’s a little dry,” she says, taking another sip, “but it’s good.”

            “I prefer vodka martinis, if I’m in the mood for something strong,” Natalia says.

            “Shaken and not stirred?”

            Natalia smiles. “A certain spy prefers them that way.”

            The air shifts when Natalia sets her drink down and leans against the counter. Her eyes are darker and they take Villanelle in as if really seeing her for the first time. Villanelle returns the gaze and approaches her, and then she kisses her. It lasts for several minutes, becomes clumsy and heated before Villanelle pulls away slightly to tell her, “Wait on the bed for me.”

            Natalia slinks away, the sound of a zipper accompanying her exit.

            Villanelle opens a silent drawer once she’s sure Natalia is in her bedroom. She eyes the knives within, grabs one that has a five-inch blade. She tests the sharpness with a fingertip, only satisfied when a pinprick of blood appears. She hides the knife in the waistband of her pants.

            She finds Natalia in the backmost bedroom. She’s only wearing black underwear. Her cheeks are already flushed. There’s anticipation building inside Villanelle. She’s eager to get this over with, make it quick like Viktor and the others want, but again she exercises patience. There’s a plan to follow.

            “Lie back,” Villanelle says. “Close your eyes.”

            Natalia obeys. Villanelle puts the knife under the unoccupied pillow, then climbs on top of her. She trails her fingers over bare skin, eliciting pleased shivers and goosebumps. She trails them lower, over her stomach, until they’re inside her underwear.

            “Are you always this eager with younger lovers?” Villanelle asks, keeping her voice soft.

            “I have a lot of lovers.” Natalia twitches, makes to grab for Villanelle’s wrist but then decides against the action, clutching her pillow instead. “It… keeps things exciting.”

            “Someone like you bored out of her mind?” Villanelle leans down to press a trail of kisses across Natalia’s sternum. “I couldn’t imagine.”

            Everything is quicker once a rhythm is established, and while Natalia curls heavily into her Villanelle takes the kitchen knife from underneath the pillow and readies it. She murmurs, as Natalia collapses back against the pillow, “Nuclear technology must be terribly boring.”

            Natalia doesn’t get a word in. Her eyes only widen and there’s only a sharp gasp as the knife goes into her stomach. She holds her breath like she’s about to plunge into deep water, too shocked to breathe. Villanelle tugs the knife cruelly from her and blocks the scream with two firm hands around the sides of Natalia’s throat.

 

—

Eve is at lunch with Elena at an American-style restaurant when her phone rings loudly in her purse.

            “If it’s work, I swear…”

            “Just turn it off,” Elena says, popping another fry into her mouth.

            “Can’t. It’s Carolyn.”

            “Must’ve found out you took a vacation.”

            Eve answers. “Carolyn.”

            _“Eve,”_ says Carolyn in a manner of greeting. _“There’s been a development.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nuclear technology thing came about because I was discussing with a friend what sorts of scandalous things a CEO would be involved in, and we had a laugh about "What if The Twelve stan murder but draw the line at anything that will progress climate change?"


	3. Epilogue: I Think I See You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for sticking to this work. It ended up being a lot longer than it was supposed to be, and I really should stop being surprised by that, but never am. Thanks for all the kudos and lovely comments too xx  
> \--  
> This epilogue was written to the song Stars by Sam Airey

**London**

Eve rushes through Heathrow laden with luggage and a hastily bought croissant and cheap coffee. She wishes she had time to go home and change out of her clothes that smell like airplane and stew over the fact that she hadn’t really had a vacation or a chance to wear a fucking trendy swimsuit, but from the sound of Carolyn’s voice on the phone the development was urgent. She bypasses the baggage claim completely and heads for the exit. A familiar Land Rover is parked at the curb. Eve opens the passenger door and climbs in and nearly tosses her duffel bag onto the lap of a well-dressed man in his forties. She hadn’t seen him sitting there.

            “Sorry,” she says. “Can you set that on the seat?”

            “That’s Damian,” says Carolyn, who is applying a shade of purple lipstick, looking at her reflection in the sunshade mirror. “I’m dropping him off at the pub.”

            “Drinking at 10:34 in the morning?” Eve asks him, though given her current state of affairs, she doesn’t really blame him.

            “I go there for breakfast, actually,” Damian says.

            “He’s an egg fan. I’ve been sparing him my judgement for years.” Carolyn caps her lipstick and turns to Eve. “Good vacation?”

            “It was hardly a vacation,” Eve replies.

            “It’s always a shame time off gets cut so short. Especially after you’ve bought something trendy and never have the chance to wear it.”

            Eve buckles her seatbelt, takes a sip of coffee to keep the frown of thought off her face. The woman’s like God. She knows everything and you wonder just how much ‘everything’ really is.

            Back at the office, the space smells like burnt coffee and breakfast rolls, and there are new photographs on the corkboard, pinned there by Eve’s new colleagues, Hugo and Jess. Both are helping themselves to the breakfast rolls. Kenny is nowhere to be seen. Eve gulps and steps to the corkboard, her heart shifting higher in her chest.

            The photographs are of a woman in her early forties. She’s spread out on a lavish bed, her eyes closed, her hair mussed, wearing only underwear. There’s a stab wound to her stomach and it’d bled profusely. There are also bruises on her neck, either from erotic asphyxiation or being murdered that way.

            Eve’s breath is entirely too shallow.

            “W-Where were these taken?” Eve asks.

            “A holiday home in Nice,” Jess says from her chair. “Apparently purchased for 1.3 million Euros.” A pause. “It’s got a lot of flair, doesn’t it? The kill.”

            Eve’s stomach twists. She can’t stay here.

            On an impulsive decision, Eve grabs the open folder from the table in front of the corkboard and leaves the office, abandoning Hugo, Jess, and Carolyn and immediately goes to the nearest pub for a gin and tonic despite the early hour. She broods over the development, her nerves alight, her thoughts jumping in all directions. She opens the borrowed folder in hopes that it’ll clear her head.

            The murder victim was Natalia Scarborough. She had dual citizenship in England and Sweden (her mother was Swedish, her father English) but had, rather surprisingly, made her home in Paris. She was former CEO of a Swedish engineering firm, Borg Engineering, having resigned due to “personal matters.” (A Milton Larsson is the current CEO.) She took frequent holidays to Nice, where she owned a lavish beachfront vacation home. According to the file Eve had been given not moments after she’d buckled herself into Carolyn’s passenger seat, Natalia often took her lovers to that property. The lovers were mostly women whose ages ranged from twenty-six to forty-five. Upon further research, it was discovered that this innocent-looking woman wasn’t exactly that. She was involved in a side project that dealt with nuclear technology.

            Hence the reason she was murdered.

            The murderer was Villanelle.

            She’d seen the crime scene photos and immediately knew.

            Natalia Scarborough was stabbed in the stomach with a knife in the same place Eve had stabbed Villanelle in Paris. The actual cause of death, according to both the bruises around her neck and the coroner who’d performed the autopsy, was strangulation.  

            It’s a clear message, Eve thinks, crunching down on an ice cube. A cry for attention. Something shared between the two of them. (Not really, anymore, now that Kenny knows.) But it also means that she’s back in business.

            Her phone vibrates in her back pocket. Eve answers without thinking, “I just need a minute, C—”

            _“Wow,”_ says an all-too-familiar voice. _“Should I call back later?”_

Eve swallows. It’s her. She’s thought about that voice for weeks and now that she’s finally hearing it, it’s unreal.

            _“Still there, daydreamer?”_ Villanelle asks.

            “Yes,” Eve replies.

            _“Did you like it?”_

Eve scoffs. “I’m not supposed to like them.”

            _“You once called an assignment of mine ‘cool.’”_

            “How do you know that?”

            _“That Frank Haleton bastard had a very wordy report stored on his hard drive.”_

Must’ve been a draft of the official report that contained insults similar to “tiresome thinkbucket.” Eve sighs. “What’re you doing?”

            _“My job. Unless you mean right now, in which case I’m having a cheese baguette. You’d like the parmesan.”_ There’s something about the tone of her voice that Eve finds appealing… Is she smiling while she’s talking? Then, _“You shouldn’t crunch ice. It’s bad for your teeth.”_ The call ends and Eve feels both warm and cold panic shooting through her. She spins in her stool, looking desperately around for honey hair and an unmistakable walk but, of course, finds nothing.

 

            That night, Eve gets takeout from a Thai place and eats it alone at her kitchen table, accompanied by 90s soft rock and a bottle of Gewürztraminer. The brutal crime scene photos of Natalia Scarborough flicker through her head, and then they molt into fantasies of how Villanelle did it. She was murdered wearing only underwear. Villanelle had once shamed Eve by making her undress and change in plain sight. She could’ve done the same with Natalia. Or she could’ve seduced her, lured her into a false sense of security, and sank the knife in before ultimately deciding to strangle her. Something acidic swims in Eve’s stomach at the thought of Villanelle kissing someone else, burying her fingers in someone else’s curly hair, or between someone else’s thighs…

            Eve abandons her dinner and Gewürztraminer, throwing on a jacket and slipping on a well-worn pair of heeled boots. She takes the tube into the city and walks and walks and walks until she finds a club with pulsing music. Uncaring that she’s too old for this sort of thing, she enters, buys her second gin and tonic of the day, and nurses it at the bar. The bass makes her bones vibrate. Makes the bloody images fade a little more but Villanelle emerge. She imagines eyes and hands and breathing and the elation Villanelle must feel at killing someone. How, for someone like her, it must be orgasmic, at least until the pleasure of the kill wears off.

            Eve glances at the crowded dance floor and freezes when she spots honey hair. Light eyes belong to it too and they meet hers, crinkle only slightly before they disappear in the direction of the bathroom. Eve follows, leaving her half-drunk gin and tonic at the bar, her head already swimming, her heart clogging her throat like hair in a drain.

            The bathroom is quieter, the music only a soft thump. Someone is breathing heavily in the very back stall. Further in is Villanelle at the sink, it must be, and Eve reaches to touch her elbow—

            It isn’t. The face is similar but the nose is smaller and the eyes are blue-grey.

            “Sorry,” Eve says, awkwardly retracting her hand. “I… thought you were someone else.”

            The woman smiles. She’s at least thirty, Eve guesses. “It happens.” The smile turns softer and suggestive, and she steps carefully forward, puts a light hand on Eve’s jacket-covered shoulder. “I could be someone else, if that’s what you’re after.” She trails her fingertips up Eve’s neck and Eve nearly shivers. She’s been pretending a lot lately, pretending she’s the loving woman Niko married, pretending that her job isn’t affecting her, that her marriage is still worth saving—who’s to say she can’t pretend a little more? Villanelle must do it, _does_ do it, for her covers, maybe even during sex. Maybe she pretends the woman she’s fucking is Eve… And maybe Eve can pretend the warm hand cupping her face is Villanelle’s, that the mouth she’s leaning towards is Villanelle’s—

            Their lips barely brush when Eve tilts her face sharply away. It’s wrong. Everything about this is wrong and terribly fucking unreal. She doesn’t want to pretend. She wants the real fucking thing.

            “You okay?” the woman asks. “Do you even like women?”

            “I…” Eve swallows. “This isn’t what I want.”

            She rushes back into the pulsing club, heading for the exit. She leans heavily against the outside wall and breathes in the cool night air. Above her, the sky is clouding up. It might rain later tonight. Eve leans her head against the wall to stop the world from swaying.

            She’d said it aloud. To a complete fucking stranger.

            Eve laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> It turns out I write fics instead of doing research papers. [Insert gif of Konstantin saying 'Very bad']


End file.
